


can we pretend it's not the morning?

by magunes



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boyfriend Jean, Dog Groomer Reader, Domestic Fluff, Domesticity, F/M, Fluff, Happy, Jean is head over heels, Lifeguard Jean, Modern Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan, high school sweethearts, i want a boyfriend like him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:47:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29986578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magunes/pseuds/magunes
Summary: Jean just really, really,reallyloves waking up next to you in the morning.
Relationships: Jean Kirstein/Original Female Character(s), Jean Kirstein/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 55





	can we pretend it's not the morning?

**Author's Note:**

> reader has hair long enough to tuck behind an ear and small boobs because small boob representation is important to me :] apologies for a less neutral imagine!!!!!

Like _all_ children, Jean _hated_ waking up early when he was growing up.

It was only in the rare case of waking up an hour before his school alarm to find that he had time to continue sleeping that Jean found joy in the early hours of the day; morning people were the same kind of people who woke up on Monday’s feeling refreshed and ready for work, the same kind of people who liked doing homework and catching the bus to school.

Now that he’s an adult, the ripe age of twenty two and living in his _own_ house with his _own_ rules and _own_ morning schedules (to some extent), Jean finds that he quite enjoys mornings. Not for the simple fact of waking up to birds or the sunrise, or the way that mornings, when early enough, feel like out-of-body experiences; Jean savours those moments being awake in the morning because it means extra moments stolen in your arms, or you in his; extra moments spent looking at you, peaceful and beautiful until the annoying sound of your alarm clock set off the day to a grumpy start.

Today, it’s six fourteen, on a Wednesday. Mid-week, otherwise known as the day Jean _actually_ doesn’t have control over his morning schedule due to working from nine to three at the local leisure centre, where he, _only_ on Wednesdays, supervises the Over Fifties swim and sits on the Holy Seat of baby-pool-lifeguard-duty. Regardless of that fact, Jean stares up at the white ceiling for a moment and glares at the pathetic excuse of curtains in your shared home. They were advertised in IKEA as blackout curtains, but Jean begs to differ, considering how the bedroom floods with a muted natural glow, the selfish peek of sun through the parting of the two drapes.

Next to him, you shift slightly, your cold feet brushing against his calf and he doesn’t even flinch; he’s so immune to things that might have once annoyed him, having gotten used to your habits and quirks over the past nine years of dating you.

Jean rolls to his side, blinking down at you as you subconsciously shuffle towards the heat of his body, your left cheek squishing up against the bare skin of his bicep. Half of him wants to bring you closer, kiss your lips awake; instead Jean smiles, widely, and gently brushes away the hair that’s fallen over your face as you moved. He tucks it behind your ear, smoothing his hand across your face because, remarkably, you never wake up from it. In actual fact, you snuggle into it, like a kitten to the warmth of a blanket, and Jean inwardly coos.

He gathers in his sighs of content, wrapping his arms around you with a quiet groan that blows your hair softly, the breath catching the tip of your ear and in your sleep, you shudder and curl closer into Jean. He accepts it happily, resting his chin upon your head and closing his eyes with a smile. Moments like these are moments Jean has learned to love; little moments of domesticity, affectionate things that couples do all the time but are things that Jean and yourself don’t do normally. In the nine years of dating, the honeymoon stage of being a grossly touchy and lovey-dovey couple had ended around the three year mark.

Don’t get him wrong- Jean loves you the same way he did nine years ago. Each day, you give him something new to love, something new to never grow tired of. You get on his nerves, irritate him to no end when you want to, but, _God_ , he loves you. Every single _inch_ of you, even the bits you don’t like so much. Jean knows you feel the same- he knows you enough to recognise your particular habits, like the way you stroke his hand with your thumb when you’re holding it, or the way you _absolutely_ have to sit opposite him when you’re going out to eat, or when you refuse to sit by anybody else on the couch when you’re all watching movies. Actions spoke louder than words, glances screaming and smiles listening.

To Jean, it’s been five seconds since he closed his eyes, five seconds of inhaling the strawberry smell of your hair when the shrill sound of your phone alarm disrupts the silence, screaming out and waking both him and yourself in surprise. It’s seven already. Jean jerks away and in his arms you groan in annoyance, your eyes still clenched closed and your face disappearing into his chest. A low hum leaves his mouth as Jean wraps his arm back over you, ghosting his fingers down your spine and then back up to the back of your head, where entangles his fingers bravely in the mess of hair created by sleep.

“Jean, turn your fucking alarm off.”

He _lives_ for adorable, first-morning words that make his heart flutter.

“It’s not mine,” he replies, his voice groggy and hoarse, like it always was when he woke up. Twisting by his chest, you make a noise of acknowledgement and for a second, look over your shoulder to where your phone still vibrates on one of the bedside tables. You groan, pushing yourself back into Jean.

“Oh. Lean over me and turn it off,” you tell him.

“But it’s _so_ far away.”

“I’m too lazy.”

Jean sighs in defeat, nonetheless smiling and rolling over with you still in his arms as he reaches to grab your phone, clicking the snooze. Beneath him, you let out a low growl, his weight of pure muscle and last night’s eleven pm takeout on top of you.

“Get off me,” you mutter, half-heartedly because secretly, you don’t mind it. He’s warm, he’s _always_ warm, and when he’s done silencing the alarm, Jean drops down, his face in your neck and his arms caged on either side of your body. Jean’s not heavy enough to crush you, leaving you room to encircle your arms around him and wrap your legs around his own. He lets out another hum, this time in satisfaction, and presses a kiss to your underjaw.

“I love when you’re bossy in the morning.”

“I love when you try and kill me by lying on top of me,” you deadpan.

“Oh, come _on_. I could have done worse.”

He could have done, and you’re suddenly reminded of that one time where Jean felt _particularly_ _loving_ and had ripped one under the covers, and found it _hilarious_ to wrap the duvet around your head. Of course, he was temporarily kicked by the groin off the bed and onto the floor, and after laughing for about five continuous minutes afterwards, learnt his lesson.

With a huff, you finally open your eyes, seeing the curve of Jean’s neck and shoulders in front of your gaze. Angling your head to the left, you peer down at Jean as he breathes into the skin of your neck, occasionally leaning to press little kisses to the skin in front of his lips. Eventually he looks up and catches your gaze; after nine years, the sight of his boyish smile in the morning _still_ gives you butterflies. The moment, however, is ruined when Jean drops his head back down with a gleeful sigh, and his right hand shoves itself up the front of your shirt to hold your boob. The affectionate smile on your face drops.

“Really?” you deadpan. When he chuckles through his nose in your neck you scoff, never pushing his hand away. “All men are the same.”

“Sorry. Love your boobs.”

“Do you have to love them so early in the morning?”

“Yeah. I can’t love them again until after three,” Jean explains, his voice muffled and pouted slightly. “I have work today.”

“I imagine you’ll see a lot of boobs today, then.”

Jean restrains the urge to gag at the idea of Over Fifties ladies in swimsuits at nine in the morning, and settles on a shudder that says it all. You laugh at that, sweetly and Jean then picks himself up onto his elbows. His hair is wild and sticking in various curly directions, his face still swollen with sleep and his lips wet, leaving a sticky kiss on your lips followed by a smile that you can’t argue with.

“Wish _I_ had granny boobs,” you say with a pout, looking down at your chest to where you see the outline of Jean’s knuckles. He has the nerve to look amused by the statement. “These are too small.”

“Well, give it a few years,” he quips and you glare at him.

“Are you saying I’m a few years off being a _granny_?”

Jean shrugs. “I like your tits. Small and pretty and soft, and they fit in my hand!” He squeezes with a smirk, “my mouth too.”

Shaking your head, you smile with an exhale of breath and Jean smiles brightly, chuckling and snaking his hand around to your back. He lifts himself up with the back of his hand and he wriggles over to you, humming as he draws closer and presses a morning kiss to your mouth. This time, he pulls away first, gauging your reaction of fluttered lids and lips that are still pouted expectantly, and how can he refuse? So he kisses again, and again, and again until each kiss is fleeting and tickly, making you squirm with a giggle that has you folding like origami under his touch.

“Mmm, don’t wanna go to work,” Jean decides when he’s finished being annoying.

“But then you’ll be poor.”

“Then _we’ll_ be poor,” he corrects playfully.

“I do have a job _too_ , you know.”

“Yeah, but you have more fun than me,” he grumbles. “I wanna play with puppies all day too. Instead I get babies in pools and granny tits and floating bandaids.”

You grimace. “That’s gross.”

“I know. Babies are the _worst_.”

“I meant the bandaids, Jean.”

“Those too.”

For a moment, Jean doesn’t say anything else and neither do you. It is just the sound of the traffic outside and that one annoying bird who has decided to make a nest in the drainpipe on the roof, as well as the tiny breaths in your ear as Jean breathes, his fingers brushing your ribcage, circling up and down and occasionally trailing higher up, to the curve of your breasts. Jean wants to go back to sleep so badly; he wants to pull the covers to his chin and wrap the both of you up in a duvet burrito, for another three hours minimum.

He _always_ wants that when he wakes up.

Before he can act on that impulse, your alarm screeches for the second time. This time, a louder groan of irritation leaves your lips and you push yourself up and out of Jean’s arms to snatch your phone and unlock it, promptly stopping the alarm all together before it literally drove you insane.

“I thought you turned it off,” you complain.

“I pressed snooze.”

“That doesn’t do shit.”

“It got it to shut up for a little bit.”

True. “ _Ugh_ , I’m so tired. Wanna eat birthday cake for breakfast? I think Connie left us some when he came round the other day.”

Jean hums, thinking about it. “Yeah. Yeah, I _do_ want birthday cake for breakfast. That sounds amazing.”

“Cool. Well-” your voice rises as you begin to shuffle off the bed, and Jean forces his voice of protest back down his throat where it belongs. Noticing that he hasn’t moved off the bed yet, you move back to straddle over his body, moving your head to the right to find his face smushed against the white duvet, and when he opens his eyes sleepily, you smile and kiss his forehead. “Let’s go, baby. If you’re up in less than ten minutes, we can eat and I’ll let you shower with me before you leave for work.”

“Mmm. I’m up,” he yawns. “M’up.”

“Come on, big guy.”

As you pick yourself up off the bed and step down onto the cool wooden floors, Jean lifts himself to watch you leave, his eyes gazing over your hair in tangles and probably knots too, and the way his shirt lifts just a little bit above the curve of your ass, which, _yes_ , he _does_ watch move until you’re out of the door and heading towards the kitchen.

For a few seconds, he enjoys the abandoned warmth of the bed before getting himself up and out, reaching up to the ceiling with ball fists to iron out the creases in his joints. Faintly, he hears you singing to yourself and he smiles, wanting to laugh and yell and dance and it’s probably the fastest he’s got out of bed since you seduced him out on Valentine’s Day.

Jean just really, really, _really_ loves waking up next to you in the morning.


End file.
